


Breathe Deep as We Go Again

by Bus_Kids_Burgade (Inthemorninglight)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Baby!Fic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, mention of past pregnancy problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthemorninglight/pseuds/Bus_Kids_Burgade
Summary: After the dramatic arrival of their daughter, Jemma is having a hard time managing her anxiety as they await their next child.





	Breathe Deep as We Go Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Learning to Breathe" (which is not complete yet!), not included in the serries because it doesn't actually have any Cody in it and I think could be read alone. Based on an anonymous prompt on tumblr requesting fs's second pregnancy and how the events of the first one affect Jemma the second time around.

The cold smear of gel across her abdomen always makes her heart race. It’s irrational. She tells herself as much all the time. Nothing feels wrong. Nothing was wrong last time. Or the time before that. Looking is not going to change what’s going on inside of her. But the fear that something might be wrong steals over her anyway, sealing like water over her head as she sits in the exam chair, stomach exposed. 

 

‘Deep breaths,” Dr. Marcel reminds her, holding the wand over the gentle slope of her belly. 

 

Fitz slips his hand around hers, squeezing tight and brushing his thumb across her knuckles. She wonders if he feels the panic she does at these appointments. If he does, he never shows it. 

 

The beginning is always the worst. The few seconds of silence as Dr. Marcel moves the wand slowly over her stomach, looking for the right angle, and the monitor is just a blur of gelatinous gray and she imagines being told there’s nothing in there anymore, despite knowing how impossible that would be. 

 

But then the image catches on a definite something and Dr. Marcel lets out a soft “ha, gotcha.” 

 

Jemma quickly looks away and smacks Fitz to remind him to do the same even though “I couldn’t pick out its head, Jemma, let alone….” 

 

“Still not keen on knowing the sex?” Dr. Marcel asks, amused. 

 

“This is getting a bit ridiculous, Jemma,” Fitz says, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re six months in. We need to start thinking about names.” 

 

“I’m not stopping you from coming up with names,” she insists. “Peggy’s already picked out plenty.”

 

“We already agreed Lemon and Bunny were no-goes.”

 

“Well it’s safe to look now,” the doctor tells them, turning the monitor more in their direction. “We’ve got baby’s face on screen now. They’re a bit upside down today. How’s the activity levels?” 

 

Cautiously, they both turn their eyes back to the screen. “Good this morning when I was trying to sleep,” Jemma reports. “Been a bit quiet since.” 

 

“Probably lulled by quiet sound and motion. Nothing to be concerned about. Everything looks good.” 

 

“Really?” Jemma’s eyes are fixed on the blobby image. It looks like the baby has one fist jammed up under its chin. 

 

“Really,” Dr. Marcel promises. “Strong heart rate, placenta still fully intact, no signs of your scar tissue causing problems. We’re doing well.” 

 

She touches Jemma’s shoulder in assurance. 

 

Once she’s done a more thorough exam, Dr. Marcel leaves them to get cleaned up and ready to go. As Jemma wipes the ultrasound gunk off her stomach and pulls her shirt down, Fitz examines the screen cap the tech had printed for them, a grin playing at his lips. 

 

“We really should start coming up with names,” he says. “If we call them Tadpole much longer, Peggy is never going to stop.” 

 

“Fine, then. We’ll call them Carter,” Jemma suggests, carefully swinging her feet to the floor and using Fitz’s arm to pull herself up. “Cute and gender-neutral.” 

 

“I know she’s the love of your life, but I draw the line at having children named Peggy and Carter,” Fitz says as diplomatically as possible. 

 

“Alright, we’ll table it.” 

 

“Jem.” 

 

“We agreed,” she reminds him sharply. “We agreed not to find out the sex or talk about names or do anything until after twenty-eight weeks. It’s only been twenty-seven.” 

 

“Ah.” Fitz presses his lips together and gives a knowing nod. “Next week is twenty-eight.” 

 

“Exactly. After next week, we can reassess, but until then-”

 

“Jemma, listen to me.” He braces his hands on her shoulders. “Nothing’s going to happen this time, okay?” 

 

She flashes him an irate look. “Are you an obstetrician now? Or a fortune-teller?”

 

“No, but we just spoke to our obstetrician, who assured us that you are fine and the baby is fine and you’re not going to go into preterm labor at twenty-eight weeks again. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you started getting a little attached.” 

 

He can tell right away, by the storm in her eyes, that his efforts to calm and comfort her have backfired. 

“Not that you aren’t - I didn’t mean -” 

 

She brushes his hands off and pushes past him and out of the small exam room. She moves fast for someone toting around a small human plus packaging, and Fitz loses her in the labyrinthine hospital passages. When he finally stumbles through the door marked ‘lobby’, she’s signing something at the front desk. 

 

“Jemma -” 

 

She puts a palm up in his direction, not even looking up, and his words die in his throat. He sighs. The walk back to the car is filled with a less-than-easy silence, but once she’s settled in the passenger seat and he behind the wheel, he tries again.

 

“I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t already madly in love with our baby,” he says quietly. 

 

“I carry it around with me everywhere I go, Fitz. We share an oxygen supply. It’s difficult to be any more attached.” 

 

And then quite without warning, a sob bursts from her throat. 

 

Luckily Fitz is well-versed enough in pregnancy mood swings to not be entirely thrown by this. Government-issue black SUVs, however, are not exactly built for comforting your pregnant wife in the passenger's seat. He has to lean awkwardly over the center console to wrap his arm around her, and by the time she’s reigned herself in to just a few watery hiccoughs, his arm has gone a little numb. 

 

“I’m already too attached,” she manages to say, tearfully, at last. “That’s - that’s the problem.” 

 

He kisses her temple and rubs her shoulder. “That’s not a problem. It’s our kid. We’re supposed to be attached.”

 

“I can’t - I just can’t - we barely survived the last time.”

 

“It’s not going to be like that again.”

 

“But what if it is?” 

 

He presses his lips to her forehead again, thinking his words over carefully this time. “D’you ever think,” he murmurs finally, “Peggy did so well when she came early...  because we already loved her so much?” 

 

“You can’t love someone into health.” 

 

“But it helps. Remember all those studies we read? I just think, early or not, this kid will be better off if we’re not afraid of being too attached.” 

 

She mops at her face and releases a deep sigh. “You’re right. I don’t want to be this anxious. I know it’s not good.” 

 

“It’s human,” Fitz tells her, now digging for the pack of tissues he knows he stuffed in his pocket at some point. “But plan for the worst, expect the best, right? We’ve planned. We’re very very planned. But we shouldn’t be expecting it.” 

 

He finally finds the tissues and passes her a handful.

 

“Alright. Maybe… we can talk about names for real tonight.”

 

Fitz pecks her one last time on the cheek before pulling his seatbelt back on and turning the car on. “I’d love that.” 

 

“I’ll bring you round on Carter, you’ll see.” 

 

He groans as he pulls out of the parking slot. “Jem….” 

 

“Give me an hour. I’ll have a powerpoint.” 

 

“I’ve seen all your powerpoints on Peggy Carter. It’s still a hard no.” 

 

Jemma cradles her swollen belly, feeling the baby stirring just a little. She lets herself smile. “We’ll see.” 


End file.
